


For Ozymandias' Eyes Alone

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Artistic fuckery, Basically an excuse for me to get my art on, Expect lots of waxing lyrical about sketching etc, F/M, M/M, Voyeurism, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Movieverse, but an AU in which the Avengers were formed prior to the eponymous film.</p>
<p> Steve Rogers hasn't drawn since the ice,  but a chance meeting encourages him to pick up his pencils once again. Will include explicit content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is in a rather different style to my Spideypool/Cablepool stuff, as I'm sure you'll be able to tell... Let's hope it works out. Although I can't seem to stop writing in present tense. *sighs* Anyway, read, review and enjoy! :)**

It’s a Monday. 

Thankfully, even the most nefarious of villains seem to respect this era’s tradition of don’t-work-on-Mondays-unless-you-absolutely-have-to, and-even-then-do-said-work-as-half-heartedly-and-shoddily-as-possible, and thus the morning has been relatively quiet. Tony’s still in bed by the time Steve leaves, and will be until noon. Pepper is racing about, torn between fruitless attempts at rousing her employer and dealing with the latest Stark Industries crisis. When Steve meanders through the kitchen she is wringing her hands, and cursing Tony’s name loudly and incessantly at anybody she comes into contact with. (She has always rather bewildered the super-soldier – why work for someone you constantly complain about? But then again, Tony blusters on about all of them given the slightest opportunity, and he hasn’t quit the Avengers yet. Anyway, Steve supposes a few years of dealing with Tony Stark one-on-one and he would be even madder than Pepper, so he doesn’t complain.) Bruce is in the basement smoking dubious concoctions. Clint is trying to think up excuses to go and join him whilst Coulson calmly shoots calmly shot down every one, and Natasha has vanished in the wee hours of the morning for an unknown reason Steve has neither wish nor stomach to pry into. 

Sitting alone at the table in the little roadside café a few blocks away from Stark tower; one he frequents because they make the best damn BLT this side of Manhattan, and is far too un-exotic for Stark’s taste (meaning he won’t be accosted by a half-dozen rowdy heroes on a Shawarma-hunt, not unless Tony _really_ wants to annoy him) Steve flips out his sketch pad, fishes a pencil stub from the pocket of his Levis and looks around for inspiration. Beauty is hard to come by in a scruffy little downtown sandwich-shop-come-café, so on most days Steve settles for what he can get. The first half of his pad is stuffed with quick doodles of passers-by; a likeness caught in the roll of their shoulders and the curvature of their face. Interspersed with these are heavier, more detailed drawings; drawings of those who come into the shop long enough for him to flesh them out. Some - the regulars – have become caricaturised over time. Starting off as loose, line-ridden faces and becoming sharper, more angular and defined, their noses and brows have been exaggerated and repeated until Steve feels he could trace them in his sleep. It’s curious really, how he doesn’t know the names of half the people here but could sketch the whole lot from memory. 

Steve doesn’t think of himself as unsociable. Quite the opposite in fact - he has been bought up to be polite and honest, and that earns him more genuine friends than any of Tony’s posturing, or Natasha’s brusk no-nonsense mannerisms, or even Clint’s endless repertoire of corny jokes. He is a rather difficult man to dislike, and his modesty in the matter only makes him more affable. But whereas Tony is perfectly comfortable in marching over to a stranger and loudly (albeit obnoxiously) ensuring his presence is known, Steve has always preferred a more… low key approach. Growing up as the skinny kid from Brooklyn made him realise that, more often than not, if a person wants your company they will seek it out. And so, beyond a few salutations and smiles when he makes himself at home at his customary two-manner, Steve keeps himself to himself. He approaches the odd new customer to shyly inquire if they would be offended if he made a quick sketch, _not for profit or anything sir/madam, just for fun,_ but beyond that on most days he can be found leaning back, pad propped up on one knee and enjoying the silence. 

Today, however, is not most days. 

Steve looks up from his doodle of the waitress - Eleanor, her name is; a pleasant, drab teenager with hair too straight to be natural, whose underwhelming chin forms as easily beneath his pencil as a pot on the wheel - just in time to hear the bell tinkle and watch as today’s new customer walks in. 

_He looks rough,_ is his first thought. His second thought is; _he’s beautiful._

And he is. 

Growing up in the forties meant Steve could never publicly express admiration for the male form for fear of public ridicule, but he has always been an artist first and foremost. From before he’d dreamed of joining the army, he’d been crouched in front of a window watching a rich neighbour’s telly and sneaking sketches of famous actors’ chiselled jawlines on the sly. The army gave him a new style, focussed more on the muscle and sheer, powerful masculinity of a body. Steve learnt how bold strokes could enunciate the strength coiled within every one of his comrades’ limbs, and how deep shadows only made muscles more prominent. They had had a different beauty; those heavy-chested, thick-armed men; although it had been no less captivating. Somewhere, buried in a storage box with his name on it, lays sketch after sketch of Bucky - Bucky grinning and holding up his fingers in the universal ‘peace’ sign, Bucky stretched out and snoring in the back of an airplane, Bucky in mess hall gobbling down his food like he’s in a race and reaching for Steve’s leftovers once he’s done. Bucky was the only person not to roll his eyes and snort when Steve asked if he could draw him, although he’d been far from the most patient model. Just remembering the way his feet would tap and his legs would start to jiggle, and how he’d start tossing his head from side to side like a horse flicking away flies, after the first minute, makes Steve smile. Bucky had been big and easy in his musculature, moving with the sort of taken-for-granted, easy strength that showed he had been in possession of it all his life, but even he looked graceless and clumsy when compared to this man. 

Steve feels his eyes widening. His pencil skitters to a stop on Eleanor’s lower lip, then jumps over to a clear stretch of page and begins its work anew. The man is all long, smooth lines and pale skin; his hair a mussed black ruckus that has been scraped back haphazardly from his forehead. It keeps falling forward into his eyes, no matter how many times he brushes it away. 

And those eyes… gosh. 

For a minute, Steve regrets not bringing a wider range of colours, but not even the sharpest, brightest pencils could emulate the green of this man’s eyes. They look like someone has dropped a handful of the freshest, fattest leaves into acid and leeched out all the chlorophyll; sharp and ascorbic, darting from side to side and taking in every detail of the little establishment. Steve quickly glances down at his paper when the man’s gaze slides by, and he looks up to see it hasn’t lingered. He’s not sure if he’s pleased or dismayed at that. No, he won’t be able to capture those eyes with pencils. Maybe a dash of acrylic, or if he mixes a few oils… Oh, but his sketch pad seems inadequate now. Steve wants to sit this man down; lay him out on a bed and arrange those long, tapered limbs and _paint._

But for now, monochrome must be adequate. Steve follows the line of the stranger’s spine as he walks up to the bar - he holds himself perfectly straight, posture better than most army men Steve has known, but he still manages to look oddly delicate as he gives the café one last scan with those green, green eyes, and carefully places a few coins onto the counter. 

“What can I buy with this?” he asks quietly, sincerely. Steve has to strain his ears to hear the words. His accent is as pleasing as the rest of him - soft and British, and that really shouldn’t matter to one whose sole interest lays in sketching him, but somehow it does. Steve tilts his pencil nub and discovers the perfect angle for the man’s slender hips. He is drawing him with his back to him, as the man appears, but twisting around slightly at the shoulders to catch his sharp profile and one of those long-lashed, bright eyes. It doesn’t look right in grey. Steve considers, head tilted, then brandishes his rubber and transforms the man’s iris to seamless, unbroken white. He’ll paint it when he gets back to the tower, perhaps. 

Eleanor looks down at the change, boggles for a moment, and shakes her head. Limp brown hair whips about like tails on the cat. 

“I… I’m sorry, sir…” she says nervously, tapping the coins one by one as if afraid she’s miscalculated. “But this doesn’t add up to twenty cents. I, uh, can’t give you anything for this.” 

“Oh.” 

The man looks down at himself, and there is distaste in the curve of his lip as he takes in ragged shirt and ripped leather trousers; the bony wrists peeking out from underneath his cuffs. The top looks too small for him, like he stole it from a washing line or a used clothes bank without stopping to check for size, and the way it comes halfway-down his arms but fits snugly over shoulder, chest and stomach only accentuates his thinness. Homeless, Steve thinks with a sudden rush of pity. And foreign. Probably confused with the currency - maybe he’s been mugged? Even back in Steve’s day, that had been commonplace in cities this size. He looks out of place in the tattered clothes, more like he belongs in fine silks than a workman’s outfit or rags. Certainly, he has the face of an aristocrat. Steve finds himself wondering how the sharp angles of his body would look when wrapped in a well-fitted suit, or nothing at all, and shakes his head before determinedly shutting his pad and slipping it away. This poor fellow, obviously a bit out of sorts, is probably starving. Now is not the time to be thinking of art, not when there is genuine human suffering going on. _But he looks so beautiful when he’s sad,_ whispers a traitorous little voice in the back of Steve’s mind; the one he has to constantly strive to ignore. _I wonder what he’d look like if he was crying._

Flushing, Steve puts his pencil back into his pocket, takes a sip of his coffee - Americano, they call it now, although it had just been ‘black’ when he was a kid; the way his mother used to make it - for liquid courage and stands. _You’re just gonna offer him a drink, he tells himself, firmly. One drink. Slip him a twenty when you’re done - maybe a fifty - and point him in the direction of the nearest YMCA. They’ll give him all the help he needs._

“I can, uh, get you a glass of water if you like?” Eleanor offers, helplessly. Her long, red-painted nails skitter on the polished bartop, and she looks very much like she’d rather buy him a nice warm toastie and a cappuccino before letting him go on his way. They don’t get many homeless people around this neck of the woods. And one as lost-looking as this… There is little wonder Eleanor wants to help him. Steve sighs and steps up to rest on the bar besides the man, ready to make his offer. Eleanor’s wages aren’t enough to cover meals for anyone but herself. His SHIELD-operative pay is infinitely more substantial. But the man is shaking his head now, sending more soft, black fronds of hair slipping free to frame his face. He’s dirty too, Steve notices, as if he’s slept rough for a couple of nights, and this close to him there is a faint tang of sweat and leather and something else. Darker; more metallic. Blood? Steve frowns. 

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” the stranger says, shooting her a brittle, trembling smile that is utterly hollowed out from within; nothing more than a contraction of facial muscles. Emotion seems to slip off him like rainwater from the back of a duck. Then he reaches down, slowly, so not to spook her, and lifts her coffee-stained knuckles to press against his lips. It is a strange, archaic gesture - one Steve is certain had been out of fashion since before his youth, even in Britain - and Eleanor looks just as shocked as he does, although she forces an answering smile before gently extracting her fingers. The stranger gives her one last empty look, then spins for the exit. 

Steve catches his shoulder as he goes past. 

It feels far too delicate beneath his palm, as if the man is constructed entirely of bird bones. His entire back clenches, and Steve is certain he is going to clock him one, and is equally inexplicably certain that it will hurt, but then the stranger relaxes into the grip and turns. Green eyes stare into his - not emerald, emerald is too dark and drab, these are _green_ \- and blink a few times in weary apprehension before glancing away. For a second, Steve is stumped. He’s seen this before, after all. Soldiers during the war had been sent home from the battlefields with ruined bodies and shattered souls. You’d be able to see the physical wounds, no problem - twisted legs, broken backs and arms snapped like twigs beneath bootcaps - but the only way you could tell the gap where a soul had once sat was by looking into their eyes. Even then there’d been something there; sorrow, an endless well of horror that kept bubbling up and overflowing. But in this man… In this man, there is nothing. Nothing at all. Any semblance of soul has been sucked out and dashed to dust, leaving only a desolate vacuum behind. 

“Yes?” the stranger asks. His expression makes another sharp waver, as if he is clinging to his composure by a thread, and Steve is hit by a most uncharacteristic urge to turn and walk away. It prickles the edges of his mind, luring his attention to focus on the group of young women perched around a table in the corner; the remnants of his sandwich. _Don’t you want to sit back down and finish your meal, mortal? What about those girls over there? Don’t they look pretty? Wouldn’t you rather talk to them?_

_Not really,_ Steve thinks back, bewildered. He fights through the insinuation, gripping the man tighter as he does so. The curious compulsion vanishes as quickly as it appeared. The Stranger struggles briefly, and Steve could’ve sworn he is actually pulled forwards a step - impossible, because this man is skinny as a pin and as Tony had put it, Steve is a ‘veritable machismo meat-tank of manliness’ - but then his arms drop to his sides and he hangs limp, glaring up at Steve with something too blank for reproach. _Now’s your chance. Ask him. Tell him you’ve got no problem footing the bill, and he can always pay you back later. The hostel’s just down the street; turn right at the corner and carry on until you come to the end of the block. You’ll walk him if he wants-_

“Let me draw you,” Steve blurts. 

There’s an awkward silence. Steve spends it berating himself furiously. A few of the regulars look up, shake their heads with knowing smiles, and go back to their newspapers. Eleanor stifles a nervous giggle, and the man himself looks slightly taken aback. 

“I’m sorry?” he asks. Well, there’s no turning back now. Steve quashes down the rising wave of mortification, feeling a blush beginning to rise, and relaxes his grip from vice-like to a gentle squeeze. The man won’t bolt. A homeless man who turns down a free glass of water has more pride than that. 

“I, uh… would it be alright, if I… if I drew you?” he inquires again. The man’s lips - as thin and pale as the rest of him - open and close in confusion. 

“I don’t understand,” he replies, eventually. Steve shrugs, shoving his spare hand into his pocket and awkwardly clapping the man’s shoulder to try and put him at ease. It doesn’t work. The gesture makes his spine wind tight as a spring, hunching over until he is almost Steve’s height - the super-soldier blinks, because _Christ_ , he is tall, and how hadn’t he noticed that before? Probably the thinness. The man is a walking optical illusion, and Steve is wondering how he could capture that tense elegance on canvas before remembers he’s here for another reason besides artistic gratification. He coughs and tries again. 

“Well, uh, you don’t like accepting charity, right? So, if you let me draw you, you can consider that payment and I’ll buy you whatever you want…” his voice trails off. He knows from the familiar burn on his face that his cheeks are stained bright red. _Way to sound like a creepy old man,_ as Tony would say. What on earth are the regulars be thinking? What is Eleanor thinking? What is _he_ thinking? 

Hastily removing his hand from the thin stranger’s shoulder, Steve stares at the floor and wishes he could sink into it. 

“I- oh, I am so sorry, that came out all wrong and-“ 

“Alright,” the man says. Steve looks up. The stranger strokes a bony finger over his lip, eyes narrowed and slid to one side in deliberation. Even that simple gesture seems stunning; a miniscule ballet played out in seconds rather than hours. As Steve watches, awed, he glances down at him and tilts himself into a pose where he seems less likely to scramble for the exit at the first given opportunity with a brief nod. His curls shake back and forth prettily around his neck at the motion. Steve has to fight to tear his eyes away. “I agree to your terms, Mr, ah-“ 

“Rogers,” Steve mumbles, still not quite daring to believe that he has won this strange creature over. “It’s, uh, Steve Rogers. You can call me Steve.” He sticks a hand out to shake. The stranger takes it, delicately, and allows his arm to be pumped. 

There is no recognition on the man’s face. Obviously, he hasn’t lived in America long enough to be familiar with its superheroes. 

Steve gestures up at the menu board. 

“Well, uh, let’s get my half of the bargain over with first, huh? What do you want?” The stranger scans along row after row of chalk scrawls proclaiming Soup of the Day to be cheese, pea and cauliflower (it was always some variation on cauliflower, and always a similar shade of yellow when it was ladled out of the pot) and This Week’s Special Offer - a toasted bacon bap with a drink and _Your Choice of our Finest Homemade Cakes for Only $5.99!_ \- and shrugs. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says. He sounds unconcerned, but there is a lost note to his tone that makes Steve imagine he has no idea what a BLT was, let alone why you would want to eat it Bread or Bun. 

“BLT,” he tells Eleanor softly. “Bun, no toasting. Give me, uh-“ will the man even like Americano coffee? It’s all Tony drinks, but Pepper, Bruce and Clint refuse anything less milky than a Cappuccino, Coulson lives on Lattes and who knows if Natasha even requires liquid sustenance to live? There is probably some secret superspy trick to waking up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the crack of dawn every morning without ingesting copious amounts of caffeine. “Um, a cinnamon latte. And-“ he looks down at where the man’s ribs pressed against the thin white cotton of his shirt “-one of Cook’s triple-choc slices. Thanks.” The man pretends not to watch as Steve adds a crisp Alex Hamilton to his own feeble pile of coins, and accepts change and receipt. 

“That’s not what you’re having,” he informs Steve as the larger man stoops to collect their laden tray, and the super-soldier has to stop himself from laughing at the faint petulance he can hear in his voice. 

“Nope. Sorry. But you really look like you could use some of Gretel’s triple-choc, if you don’t mind me saying.” The stranger stares down at himself, and Steve sees him open his mouth to argue, take note his toast-rack stature and shut it again. 

“Yes,” he gripes, plucking morosely at the shirt. “I believe you may be correct.” 

Not five minutes later, and the stranger has somehow polished off his BLT, cake, and half a snickers bar that has been sitting in the bottom of Steve’s satchel for god-knows how long (he offers to buy him something else, but the man had been adamant about not impinging on his ‘doll-arrrs’ supply any more than he already has) all in such a genteel and quiet manner Steve hardly notices them vanish. Good to know that the man has a healthy appetite, at least. He doesn’t make much conversation in between his small, measured bites, and seems to eat just as much for hunger as for an excuse to ignore Steve’s questions on his origins and then conveniently forget they had ever been asked (“So, where did you come from?” “I’m lost.” “That’s not an answer.” “I fell out of the sky.” “No, seriously, where did you come from?” _Chomp, chomp, chomp_ ). It is only after Steve has mustered the courage to pull out his sketchbook and make a few preliminary swipes of his pencil across it that he realises he hasn’t yet asked the stranger the most important question of all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says with a laugh, closing the pad and leaning it on the table-edge. The stranger’s eyes flicker towards it, and Steve is happy to see a shred of curiousity burning in the emptiness there. “I keep referring to you as ‘the stranger’ in my head, and I completely forgot to ask you your name!” 

“Oh, it’s L-“ the stranger pauses, for an infinitesimal slice of a second, then resumes as if the hiatus never occurred. “-uke. Luke L-laufeyson.” Steve pretends not to notice the way he stumbles over the surname. He wants to use a false name? That’s fine by him. Sure, it would be nice to know the real one, but Steve isn’t a fool. Not many people are gullible enough to confide in mysterious men who accost them in sandwich shops and demand they be allowed to sketch them in exchange for food, and whoever this fellow is, he didn’t seem the easily-trusting type. Steve doesn’t have any ulterior motives, but how is Luke supposed to know that? Instead of demanding the man come clean, as some of his more heavy-handed companions might (back at the tower, Tony lets out a random, unprompted sneeze) Steve just smiles warmly and motions to Luke that he is welcome to the last quarter of his sandwich. The man dithers. He is obviously torn between propriety and hunger, so Steve answers for him; shunting the plate across the table and opening his sketchpad once more. 

“Don’t worry. I ate before I came.” True - although he isn’t sure the single, milk-soaked Weetabix Clint refused on account of it being ‘too soggy’ (Steve was taught to waste not, want not, and had been horrified that the archer could even _think_ of binning perfectly good food) constitutes for a whole replacement breakfast. 

And so, as the man calling himself Luke Laufeyson reaches for Steve’s last piece of sandwich, the artist makes a doodle of high cheekbones and a narrow face, topping it off with a wily spring of hair scribbled in the colour of an inkspill. Luke, well aware of the attention, poises himself neatly and finishes the BLT in demure silence. He seems made to model - only the slight expansion and contraction of his chest mark him out from a carefully-painted marble statue - and whilst there is still that guarded, broken depth to his eyes no amount of green can hide, he doesn’t shy away from Steve’s assessive gaze. Watching his throat crest sharply as he swallows, and the sated flutter of his long lashes, Steve is hit by a sudden sensation of peace. The war is over. And although the war against crime, superpowers and the various evils of the world is still continuing with Steve smack-bang at the centre, as long as he has the time to laze about in sandwich shops drawing pretty men who fall out of the sky, he is content. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which they meet the team, Luke gets the grand tour and the author and Steve alike have an odd fixation on Loki's nipples.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, because I didn't make it clear in the last chapter - this is pre-Avengers. The Avengers team was formed a few years previously to the events of Thor. They haven't seen hide nor hair of the Norse lot since Thor returned to Asgard, and nobody really knows that much about his little brother. Just so you know! :)**

“So, you get free board and lodge at my place,” Steve leans forwards earnestly across the table, his completed sketch sitting between them. In it, Luke is looking away from the artist’s perspective; eyes glanced down to rest on something beyond the page edge. His head is turned to show the sharp upheaval of his collarbone from where the shirt dangles around his thin neck, and half his face is in shadow. He looks sadder than he did in reality, as if Steve’s pencil somehow chipped through the cold façade and uncovered whatever it is that lies dormant within. “No rent or anything. Just model for me when I ask you to and that’ll be all the payment I need.” 

“Your place,” repeats Laufeyson. The words sound foreign on his tongue. Steve nods enthusiastically, realises he probably looks far too eager (Clint has taken to calling him ‘the patriotic retriever’ whenever he gets excited) and self-consciously tones down the watts on his smile. He still can’t keep the excitement from his voice. 

“Yeah! My flat. It’s plenty big - there’s room enough for both of us. And there’s everything you’ll need - one of them ‘en suite’ bathrooms attached to the guest room (although the main one next to my room is bigger, so you’re welcome to use that if you like) and a mini-kitchen at the end. Um, it’s only got one hob though and one of these new, uh, micro-thingies, but there’s a kitchen on the ground floor too, if you don’t mind sharing with my flatmates. Towermates, rather.” He laughs. After a moment’s hesitation, Luke joins in. 

“This… this sounds very pleasant, Steve,” he says, and this time the smile on his face is a little more genuine. Not exactly jubilant, or even friendly, but the hope is there. “These, ah, _towermates_ of yours… they will not object to my presence?” An odd way of talking, too, Steve muses. Very old fashioned, kinda like the whole knuckle-kissing gig. Definitely a Brit thing. And oh God, he sure hopes Luke doesn’t try that on Natasha - he’ll be more likely to receive a punch in the face than a curtsey. 

“Nah, they’ll be fine. Honest. They’re a nice lot, just, ah-“ oh, how on earth are you meant to breach the subject that you live with a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, a super-spy, her super-archer buddy and their stoic handler, not to mention a well-mannered, polite young doctor who smokes pot and morphs into a gigantic green behemoth at the slightest provocation? “-they’re a bit _different_ , I suppose. But you get used to them pretty quick.” 

“Different…” Luke’s stare drifts away, out the window to where the rainclouds were starting to gather above. His long fingers - piano-fingers, Steve thinks; made to flit up and down the octaves or pluck at harp strings - dabble at the napkin, and for a second he seems even more lost than he did when he first walked in. “I think I can live with that.” *** 

The first raindrop plops down onto Luke’s forehead, and he glances up at it confusedly for a second before it trickles down the hollow of his eye socket, beads on his chin and drops away to splash the pavement. Steve grins at him, and puts a hand on the small of the man’s back to steer him in the direction of the Avengers Tower. 

“We might have to run for it,” he murmurs in the pale shell of an ear. “I think we’re going to get wet.” 

They manage both. 

By the time they reach the bottom of the tower - Luke cranes his neck back as far as it goes, but manages not to gawp (do they have skyscrapers in Britain? Steve has to admit he had no idea) - the clouds have broken and they are soaked through. Although his super-soldier serum keeps him from feeling the cold, Steve keeps a careful eye on Luke, who looks skinny enough that the rain might soak right though him if he lets it. He is rather surprised to note that the smaller man doesn’t even shiver. 

Water makes Steve’s jacket cling to his back like an overweight, leathery toad, and it slathers Luke’s shirt to his chest. The fabric quickly became translucent. Through it, Steve can make out the taut, pink little nubs of his nipples, pebbled with the cold, and it shouldn’t be obscene but he ducks his head to one side nevertheless. 

“Do y’want to-“ he begins, pulling at his sodden collar. Luke shuts him off with a brisk shake of the head. 

“If you ask me if I want to borrow your jacket one more time, Steve, I will make you eat that card. Now, can you please open the door?” Ah. Apparently Luke has found his sense of humour. It is worryingly akin to Tony’s. Admittedly, the soldier _had_ offered five times previously on the jog back to the tower, and been turned down consistently - _“I am fine, Steve. I am not cold, truthfully. I am not used to the rain- may I enjoy it a while longer?”_ (Although that is weird too, because if Steve’s sources are correct, pretty much the only thing it does in Britain is rain.) 

Steve chuckles, brandishing his keycard, and slides it down the slot like Tony showed him in one fast, neat swipe. _Like swiping a credit card,_ so the young genius said, but Steve hadn’t seen or heard of credit cards until his first, rather traumatic shopping experience with his new tower-mates, and so the analogy falls rather flat. He has a feeling it would do so for Luke as well, who is staring between the slot and the pinged-open door as if Steve just performed a magician’s prestige. 

“Welcome back, Mr Rogers.” Jarvis’ disembodied voice comes floating down from hidden speakers in the ceiling, and Steve lays a comforting hand on Luke’s arm when he jumps a good half-mile in the air; looking around wildly for the invisible speaker. “S’alright,” he whispers. “It’s just an AI. Artificial Intelligence. One of Tony’s toys.” Jarvis is too polite to object to being referred to as a toy in front of a guest, although Steve expects he may be chewed out later. “I see you have bought a visitor. Shall I inform Ms Potts that we have another for lunch?” 

“Yes please, Jarvis,” Steve answers. Luke is slowly relaxing against him, and now scans the ceiling curiously, searching for any hint of Jarvis’ complex inner-mechanisms. 

“Incredible,” he whispers, trailing one hand over the wall. “Using simple tools in such a complex way… it is amazing what you have accomplished.” Steve blinks. 

“Oh, uh, I didn’t do this. This is all Tony’s area of expertise.” He laughs awkwardly; runs a hand through his rain-slicked fringe. “S’all a bunch of wiring to me. I don’t understand the half of it, despite him explaining it to me a good dozen times.” 

“Hmm.” Luke lopes into the foyer and Steve follows, muttering apologies to the cleaning staff under his breath as mud and other assorted New York grime treks over the squeaky-clean carpets. Tony’s idea of décor is based mostly around chrome and a lot of random splashes of red and gold, so at some point in the past Pepper had put her stilletto’d foot down and taken over interior design for the communal areas of the tower. There is a pleasant, clean smell in the air rather than old engine grease, but the walls are made from luxurious old mahogany plates. To most visitors it feels classy and faintly retro, but to Steve it is far more homely than all of Tony’s wacky space-age stuff combined, if more uppity than he’s used to. “I should like to meet this ‘Tony’ fellow of yours, Steve.” Luke shoots him a furtive look out of the corner of one eye and shifts on his feet before continuing - “if that is alright with you, of course.” 

Steve shrugs. 

“Well, yeah. Sure. I mean, you’ll meet him today at lunch, if he’s awake by then.” Luke nods stiffly, and when Steve next turns to look at him he notices with a shock - “hey! You’re dry already!” 

It’s quite remarkable, really. There are no more drips trailing down the slight crease of Laufeyson’s elbow, and his hair is fluffed up from its straggles to frame his face once again. Steve casts a quick glance at his chest, and tries to pretend he isn’t dismayed that the shirt has returned to its normal, opaque white. Luke tenses again. Steve notices his thin hands clenching at his sides, and all of a sudden he has returned to the cornered animal Steve had first caught in the sandwich café; pupils dilated and ready to run. The soldier quickly backs up; gives him space; and wonders how quickly he can guard the exits if the troubled young man does choose flight. What exactly is he dealing with here? A form of shell-shock (or pee-tee-ess-dee, as Coulson refers to it as)? Why does Luke look so freaked out by a simple observation? 

“Um, are you alright?” Perhaps he is one of those new-fangled ‘mutant’ fellows Tony had told him about. They hadn’t really been around before the war - or at least, hadn’t been particularly well publicised. Steve still feels out-of-his-depth wallowing about in all the contempt and disdain modern society holds for them. He can’t really understand it. Sure, some of these kids walk through walls or blow things up with their minds, but power alone doesn’t make a person evil. Most of the bad guys Steve has known in his long life only had one power, and that was the power over others; the one power everyone craved but nobody could get enough of. No, abilities aren’t what made people dangerous - just what they do with them. But if Luke came from a background where mutants were persecuted… well, it would definitely explain a lot. Steve holds out his hand to the frozen man, like he is coaxing forwards a young child from their favourite hidey-hole, and flashes his friendliest, warmest smile. 

“Hey, Luke. Listen to me. Whatever it is you’re worrying about, whether its powers or magic-“ Luke flinches “-or whatever you want to call it, it’s okay. There’s no discrimination here. If you’re new to New York you might not know the Avengers very well, but lemme tell you this; we fight to protect _everybody_. Not just non-powered civilians, yeah? We fight to protect everyone we can. So, please-“ he beckons, keeping his movement small and close to his body; inoffensive “-stay here, yeah? You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” 

“You would offer me protection, as well as everything else?” asks Luke quietly. He sounds rather disbelieving, as if he isn’t used to people showing unconditional kindness. Steve nods. 

“Yes, of course! I mean, Dr Banner will probably want to know what you can do, and Tony and Clint are nosy little so-and-sos, but you’ll still be perfectly welcome to stay here. And they’ll back off if I tell ‘em, you’ll see.” 

“Ah.” Luke tips his head back, deliberating, and then those sharp green eyes are focussed on Steve as he nods and steps primly forwards. “Very well. I thank you, Steve Rogers. I am in your debt.” 

“Not at all,” Steve replies as Luke falls back into step besides him, head held slightly higher than it had been before. He studies the smooth, haughty line of his throat and feels a thrill worm its way up through his guts. “Seriously, Luke. Just let me draw you. That’s all the payment I’ll ever need.” 

*** 

Lunch is an interesting affair. Natasha, returned from her nefarious business, insists on stalking all the way around Luke in a manner that is positively predatory after she discovers Steve didn’t frisk him upon arrival; checking his skinny form over for any sign of weapons. Tony groans out a greeting from where he is buried in his seventh coffee mug; he has collapsed over one end of the table and refuses to move for food, tempting new puzzles, or Pepper’s ire. Clint has perched himself on top of the fridge. Coulson is unsuccessfully trying to ply him down with a BBQ-chicken sandwich and a salad, and Pepper is running around picking up discarded bits of machinery and food and apologising to everybody. In the end, Bruce is the only one to greet their guest normally; shaking his hand and enquiring his name with a pleasant smile. Of course, as was wont with the Avengers, everything goes pear-shaped rather rapidly after that. 

Luke takes one look at their resident gamma-radiation specialist and backpedals like he’s been burnt, saying something short and vicious in a language Steve doesn’t understand. When the soldier glances over at him, puzzled, he is shocked to see Luke pointing a shaking finger in Bruce’s direction, eyes huge and horrified. 

“What… _what’s wrong with him?_ ” he asks; voice high and edging into hysteria. “Oh _Gods above_ -“ 

That successfully shuts everybody up for a few minutes, at least. Even Clint hops down from his perch, chomping on a lettuce leaf as he surveys the scene. Dr Banner furrows his brows and steps forwards. When Luke hastily backs up Bruce halts too, unsure. 

“You can see the Other Guy?” he inquires. Luke shivers. 

“The Other Guy, is that what you call it? I can see _something_. It looks at me through your eyes, and I see _strength and rage_ …” 

Bruce, to his credit, takes this in his stride. As if his alter-ego is visible to every second stranger he meets, he nods and takes a seat at the table, putting solid wood between him and the skittish young man. He motions for a pot noodle, and Coulson slides one across to him, mouth set in a thin line as he glances between them. 

“That’s an interesting power you have there, Luke. I’d like to learn more about it if I could.” 

Sensing that Luke has relaxed again, a little bit - and honestly, he sure hopes he isn’t about to keel over in cardiac arrest, because all this jumping around and constant tension can’t be good for him - Steve sidles over. 

“It’s okay, Luke. Dr Banner has the, um, Other Guy under control.” The _mostly_ was left unsaid. “Would you like some ramen?” 

The peace offering works. Wary look remaining, Luke folds down into the proffered seat besides Steve and watches as the soldier ladles noodles into his mouth before carefully copying. His bony shoulders rub Steve’s, and even through the lairs of leather jacket and shirts, Steve can feel the distinct chill of his skin. At first, he wonders if he should question it, but besides giving Bruce the occasional stink-eye, Luke doesn’t look in the least uncomfortable, and Steve doesn’t want to be the one to set him off again. Doesn’t want to set him off at all, if he can help it. Maybe it’s just part of his mutation. Steve gives a mental shrug and settles into to enjoy his meal. He can always ask later, anyways. After Luke has made himself at home - and modelled for a picture, of course. 

Luke eats in rapid nibbles, noodles sucked in between pursed lips with faint, wet smacks. He still seems ravenous, but manages to limit himself to a single portion this time, and when Steve sits up to take his litter to the bin Luke follows him, green eyes absorbing everything they alight upon. Clint rolls his eyes and makes a crooked love-heart between thumb and index fingers. Coulson smacks him upside the head with a folder full of paperwork before he can wolf whistle. Neither of them notice, although Natasha has to stifle a snicker. 

Outside, the rain begins a tremulous crescendo, and thunder crackles high above. *** 

After lunch, Steve invites Luke up to see his new quarters. The man polished off his ramen swiftly and impeccably, not getting so much as a splatter of juice on his shirt for his troubles; which, for someone who appeared to have never laid eyes on a pot noodle before, was to be commended. Watching him delicately slurp up string after string of the soft pasta strips, sipping at a water glass between mouthfuls, Steve’s fingers had started to itch for a pencil. How the hell Luke could make eating pot noodle dignified, he has no idea, but for whatever reason he wants to make good on their bargain as soon as possible. 

“What d’you think?” he queries eagerly, once the grand tour is over. Luke’s room is next door to Steve’s, and their doors open onto the living room they would be sharing, and the kitchen beyond that. There is a wide, flatscreen TV Steve had never used spanning a good length of wall (he can’t figure out the remote control) and two more shining half-size ones dangling at just the right height to be seen from their beds. A billion knobs scattered along the living room wall monitor everything from air conditioning and central heating to the opaqueness of the windows, all carefully labelled with words for Steve’s convenience (the diagrams had made no sense, especially not on the dryer in the bathroom. Why would one need to hold out one’s hands and receive bacon after washing them?) and the lights can be dimmed to any level Steve desires, giving him a full studio effect. When Tony builds something, he builds it well. “I mean, it’s not a palace or anything, but it’s good sized, I guess, for a flat.” 

“Yes.” Luke’s fingers walk the curve of the doorframe, a faint smile edging his lips upwards. He has mellowed somewhat after eating, and although he still seems oddly aloof he has deigned at least to tell Steve something of his past. It was hurried and not overly detailed, but Steve gets some rough idea of an adoptive family that consists of a father, mother and elder brother, who had been lying to him his entire life. In Steve’s opinion, that isn’t much of a reason to run away from home - after all, even if family lies to you they do it for good reason, right? They’re _family_. Sometimes they have to make the hard choices for the better good - but he doesn’t know the whole story, and so shouldn’t presume. He’d quickly changed the topic after Luke finished his abstract tale, and had a curious sensation that the man is grateful for it. “It is… _cozy_. I am unaccustomed to cozy. It shall be an interesting experience.” 

“I’m glad you like it. Now, uh-“ Steve leans his weight from foot to foot. Is now really the best time to ask? After all, Luke has only just moved in. Will he want to settle, arrange his things - not that he has bought any things beyond the clothes on his back, or expressed wishes to go back to a previous abode and collect them. Maybe call that elusive family, and let them know he’s alright? Because, although there’s betrayal clearly written on Luke’s sharp-featured face, it hasn’t eclipsed the residual guilt. Whatever might have happened, Luke still cares about his family. If he really is a runaway, then wouldn’t they be worrying right now? Tony had said anonymous calls are possible in this day and age, and the Avengers have a decent ‘scrambler’ on their number so it can’t be traced unless they want it to be, whatever that means. Luke doesn’t seem the type of guy to let people he cares about fret over him any longer than necessary… No, the right thing to do here would be to make some polite excuse and go muse over Tony’s latest contraption or spar with Natasha for a while, maybe even answer some of Clint’s inevitable questions; anything to give his guest a chance to mull everything over and decide what his next course of action will be. 

But the mood for drawing has struck. Luke is just… standing there, looking elegant and far more dapper than any man in a shirt a few sizes too small and dirty leather trousers has any right to, and Steve burns for graphite; pastel; anything with which to capture than beauty and make it his eternally. As if sensing his thoughts Luke turns to him, smile evolving into something wicked and teasing. Accompanied by the lowering of his lashes, this soon has Steve’s chest tightening. Heat crawls traitorously fast up the back of his neck. 

“Would you like to draw me now, Mr Rogers?” the young man purrs. 

“Call me Steve,” Steve chokes out, but he motions for Luke to recline on the bed all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, here's the second chapter! Sorry it took a while. I only have four chapters of this so far, but they need converting and I've been incredibly busy recently. Still, read and review if you liked, and I'll try and get the rest up soon.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet more arty-farty body-worship. You know what to expect by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry, sorry, sorry! I forgot all about this fic! I’ve had the last chapter sitting on my laptop for months now, completely edited and ready for uploading, but… I’ve just kept putting it off. I would say I’ve been focussing more on my Spideypool, but anyone who follows that will know it’s a lie. I just have too many plotbunnies – it feels like I’m starting new fic all the time, and never finishing it. So I’m going to give this one a rest after the next chapter. Sorry for anyone who wanted more… I know how rare this pairing is, so I feel extra bad for dropping out, but… there’s just so much other stuff that I want to write!**
> 
>  ** **Peace, love, thank you for being such brilliant readers.****

“Is this alright?” Luke asks fifteen minutes later. He is speaking so softly that the soldier has to lean in to catch the shaped breaths, sweeping a stray ringlet back behind the other man’s ear. Their chests brush against each other, one warm and broad and the other ice-cold. Luke doesn’t seem to mind, although he does shiver a little. Steve can’t help but smile as he surveys his handiwork. He’d taken it upon himself to arrange the other man, cupping each slender limb and bending it until it casts just the right amount of shadow; shows just enough of the dark green bed linens beneath it. Of course, he could have simply _told_ Luke how he wants him to move, but there is something far more intimate about doing it himself. It is as if Luke is his personal doll and Steve the puppeteer. Struck with a sudden, bizarre analogy to that quaint little cartoon-film Clint had put on a while back on one of their rare Movie Nights, Steve drags his thumb down the straight edge of his model’s nose and finds himself wondering how many times the man has lied since arriving at the tower. Certainly, the feature in question - long, straight, and with a faint asymmetry to it that makes it all the more perfect in Steve’s eyes - hasn’t grown any, but the soldier isn’t sure if that would hold up in court. _Don’t think about that now,_ he berates himself, moving on to brush the pad of his index over Laufeyson’s parted lips; feeling the cool gush of air. _Think about this. Think about the here and now; the painting. You can puzzle him out later._

The colour of the sheets complements Luke’s eyes and turns his naturally pale skin to alabaster. His curls are a streak of midnight black that halo his fine-boned head. But there is still something wrong. Something needs amending. Steve has to sit back and consider for a moment, Luke smirking up at him lazily, before it clicks. The shirt, although white, has gathered enough dirt around the cuffs to stain it the colour of old washing-up water. It looks alien in the picture Steve is trying to create, and Steve, remembering the soft pastel-pink of his model’s nipples, suddenly wants – no, needs– it gone. 

Luke doesn’t struggle when Steve pops the first button- in fact, he helps from the bottom up, slipping each plastic circle free until their hands meet in the middle and the shirt gapes around his torso like the pages of an open book. Steve only realises he’s mapping out the new skin with his palms when Luke sighs, curling into the touch when the soldier’s thumb grazes a sensitive patch on the side of his neck. He looks up bemusedly in answer to Steve’s flush. Any other time, any other person and Steve would’ve squeaked and fled, but for Luke he simply murmurs an apology and lifts him to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It pools at the smaller man’s waist; folds of ruckled white. The stains are hidden now. Luke’s skin is completely blemish-free, soft as a woman’s (or a prince’s, Steve thinks for some odd reason). The only marks on him are a tiny mole under his left pectoral and another nestled in the dip of his hip, visible where his trousers have hiked down. Steve rubs them in wonder, marvelling at the slightly rougher texture of the skin and wondering how exactly he could recreate it if he did a close-up, and tries his damnedest not to moan aloud. 

“This is perfect,” he whispers back. _You’re perfect._ It feels like a conversation that needs to be held in whispers; the peace between them too fragile to withstand spoken word. “Wait here. I’ll go get my easel.” 

Really, he should’ve set up beforehand, but Luke had spread himself out so prettily... As he scrabbles through his art supplies, fishing out a decent sized canvas and a set of pencils - a birthday present from Coulson, because before the crash Steve hadn’t even realised there _were_ different types of pencils, and he’d been experimenting ever since - the soldier begins mentally dabbling colours onto his palate, mixing white and cream and the slightest hint of blue to emulate the coolness of Laufeyson’s flesh. He’ll make a selection of rough pencil sketches today; get some outlines down. The arch of Luke’s spine, perhaps - if he can push himself up against the bed again like he had done when Steve first touched him, throwing his head back and exposing the long column of his throat, and hold himself there long enough for Steve to get down a base impression. If not, his current position will more than suffice. 

Steve hurries back through into Luke’s room, not staggering in the slightest beneath the combined weight of canvas, easel, stool and other miscellaneous supplies he thinks might come in handy. It still surprises him on occasion, when he looks down at himself and realised that he has hefted a weight larger than his pre-serum bodymass without breaking sweat. But he’s almost gotten used to it, as of late. 

Almost. 

A strange, alien sensation remains, squashed to the back of Steve’s mind, that he is not in the body he is meant to be in. ‘Captain America’ remains some transcendent ideal that is removed from him; his muscles; his shield and cowl and everything that the American public seemed to believe makes him, _him_. ‘The icon of the people’. Coulson has referred to him as that more than once, in doey-eyed reverence that is more than a little worrying coming from the usually oh-so-stoic man, but Steve doesn’t really believe that. He isn’t an icon. An idol, more like. He’s been propped up on a pedestal, looking down at the shoes tailored for him by a lasting legacy of dreams and hopes, the ones that are always a size too large for his feet to fill. 

The Captain America little boys tell their parents they _wanna be when I grow up_ doesn’t lay awake at night, haunted by memories of Bucky falling. 

The Captain America whose face plasters the news and the televisions doesn’t spitefully put the coffee out of certain billionaire playboy philanthropists’ reach when they have annoyed him. 

And the Captain America who gives people hope and encourages them to stand up for what is right _definitely_ doesn’t get off on the mere prospect of having a beautiful young man he’d stolen from the streets modelling for him, and willing to do whatever he asks of him in exchange for food to eat and a place to stay. 

_You’re taking advantage,_ Steve thinks to himself, just as the darker voice within him echoes - _and you don’t care._

Steve snaps the easel into position and looks his fill of Luke’s long body. The man is on his back, legs slightly spread and one arm tossed up and over his forehead. He has remained completely stationary whilst Steve left the room, down to the vague smile on his lips, but as he hears Steve return the expression smoothes into studious disinterest. He looks as if he could’ve fallen there seconds ago, hair still mussed and faintly frizzy from the rain. _I’m lost_ , Luke told him when they first met. Right now he looks it. 

The first scrape of pencil-over-canvas is loud as a gunshot, and Luke flinches before rearranging himself nervously, as if afraid he’s done something wrong. Steve huffs out a laugh. 

“Relax, you’re modelling, not standing for the firing squad. You can move about a bit - I want this to look natural.” Luke sighs, and some of the stiffness bleeds from his muscles like sand from a sieve. His posture instantly becomes looser; less rigid. Naturally, his thighs fall further apart and Steve is treated to an eyeful of leather stretched tight over slim hips, and what can only be described as an impressive bulge. 

Steve quickly ducks down behind his canvas and sketches out the angle of Luke’s head with new ferocity. 

_You’re an artist,_ he reminds himself. _He’s beautiful. It’s natural to feel attraction._

_You’re Captain America,_ himself mocks back. _Captain America doesn’t get hard over men._

But apparently Captain America does. Steve tries to ignore the dull throb that grows between his legs whenever Laufeyson shifts. He gets through the first half-hour on willpower alone; by which time he had only managed to sketch out a single draft, the preliminary shape for the painting and the bed behind. Luke’s chest curves up slightly from the coverlets. His flawless body is drawn to his raised arms like a bowstring, and his legs stretch out so bare toes kiss the footboard. Steve can hardly believe that his model hasn’t moved yet - at least, not beyond the odd twitch and the steady metre of his breath. Setting his pencil back down in its holster, the Captain shakes out his arms and grins. 

“Wanna break?” he calls to Luke. The man nods, twisting himself around in preparation to push himself up to his knees. Steve’s breath catches in his throat. His erection, which has been quelled by a determined mental parade of dead kittens, swells to half-life once more. Oh Lord. Leather is pulled taut over the soft mounds of Laufeyson’s arse, tight enough that Steve can see he wears nothing underneath. His trousers slide down even further as the thin man rights himself, and Steve’s eyes are drawn like magnets to the dimples on the small of his pale back. Oh Lord, oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord. Walking might be difficult. 

“You go on ahead,” he tells Luke cheerfully. He manages not to blush any more than he already is (if such a thing is possible, as he is already certain he looks more akin to tomato than man) when his model rolls his shoulders; shoulder-blades knifing out smoothly and submerging beneath the white skin again; before yanking up his trousers and reaching for his shirt. “I’ll, uh, catch you up.” Scratch that; walking is completely out of the question right now. 

Luke’s eyes assess him for a moment, thankfully not wandering any lower than his face - although Steve casually covers his lap, just in case. Even through his boxers (stars-and-stripes motif, because Tony claims to have a sense of humour - it might not be a particularly good one, and it might be so over-reactive even Clint gets sick of it on occasion (who in all honesty is just as bad) but it is still most definitely there) the jeans chafe. 

“Certainly,” he replies after a moment, and begins rebuttoning. Steve wishes he had the guts to stand and help him, or the fine motor control, but right now the urge to go sneak a little private time in his bathroom is overpowering his usual impeccable civility. “I shall return in fifteen minutes, if you do not find me.” 

Steve pretends to be tracing a few extra details on the canvas. He shoots Luke a distracted nod whilst his mind keeps up a traitorous mantra of _those hips those legs that ass those hips those legs that ass,_ no matter how many times he tries to distract it with nice, modest thoughts; like whether he should buff his shield tonight and get a few hours of training down before tea. He blames it on the fact that all the blood in his body seems to have rushed straight to his nether-regions. As soon as the door clicks shut Steve is off - nearly knocking over the chair in his bow-legged swagger, and heading straight for the shower.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Yup, this is just utterly shameless bunny-fucking. The explicit warning is needed for Steve’s cock, which is quite possibly semi-sentient and out to embarrass him as much as possible.**

He is feeling closer and closer, each thrust into his tight, slicked fist making him imagine Luke; Luke knelt on the linoleum with his pink lips spread wide around the head of his cock; Luke pressed up against the tiles so Steve can fuck between his thighs; Luke perched primly on his lap like a King on his throne, impaled on him and making soft little ‘oh’s whenever Steve tongues across his chest… Steve is so lost in the rising, forbidden pleasure that he doesn’t hear the flat door creak open, or Luke’s quiet greeting. He didn’t even notice when the bathroom door-handle starts to turn, although the mental cursing begins anew when Luke calls out, curious and innocent; “Steve? Mr Rogers, are you in here? It’s been half an hou- oh.” 

Of course, it is that single, shocked syllable popping like a burst bubble in the middle of Luke’s sentence that sends Steve careering wildly over the edge; hips jerking forwards and white spilling out over his fingertips. His knees weaken, and he has to cling to the sink with his bare hand to keep himself upright. 

Luke simply stands in the doorway. His eyebrows are raised and the green eyes beneath are glistening; brimming over with something unreadable - shock? Horror? Steve can’t tell. Once the aftershocks have died away, mortification quickly replaces lust and the soldier gapes at his new flatmate with a mimic of the other’s expression. 

“Oh… oh _God_ …” Well, what the hell are you meant to say when your gorgeous new model walks in on you jerking off? Had he been saying Luke’s name? Had he? Oh _damn_. “I’m, uh, I’m so sorry-“ 

“Don’t be,” says Luke faintly. 

“Um, I’ll understand if you want to, um, leave-“ Luke’s eyes are fixed firmly on the cooling cum that coats his fingers. He’s got a whole bloody handful of it; thick and white and trailing stickily down his arm. Steve quickly shoves the offending appendage under the shower spray. “Really, honestly, I’m sorry you saw that…” _This isn’t what you think_? But it was, it definitely was, and Steve refused to damn himself further by denying it. _Well done, soldier,_ he thinks to himself, glumly. _You just lost yourself the best model you’ve ever had, within an hour of meeting him, and all because you had to think with your cock._ This is rapidly shaping up to be a Bad Day. 

When Steve looks up again, Luke is gone. He didn’t expect anything different. The bathroom door droops forlornly open, as if mourning the loss of the beautiful man who shall never grace it again, and Steve steps out and languidly towels himself off, soaking in the residual warmth of the shower for a brief moment before he can force himself to face reality. 

He doesn’t bother with a T-shirt, or even his pants. He just slings the towel around his waist and lopes out into the bedroom. Maybe, if he can find his palette, he can mix up that exact, exquisite green of Luke’s eyes, so he can fill them in and let the memory live another day? But he’s not in the mood right now, and somehow he knows that having those sharp eyes watching him every morning from an unfinished painting would only make everything that little bit worse. 

When he sees Luke, manoeuvred back into his prior position on the bed and staring blankly at the ceiling, he has to stop and do a double take before he can convince himself that no, this is not just wishful thinking. The man has arranged himself into almost an exact copy of his original pose. When Steve dumbly walks forwards, his head turns slightly and he gives the soldier a solemn stare. 

“Why didn’t you go?” asks Steve, pausing at the foot of the bed. Luke shrugs. Steve finds it difficult to sway temptation and keep his eyes on the man’s face, but he’s already made a fool of himself once and the small, hopeful part of him that hopes upon hope that this is a second chance refuses to let him do so again. One of the many perks of the super-soldier serum is the increased stamina. Until today, when he feels his cock throb suddenly – _again_ \- behind the soft wool of the towel, he’s never considered this a problem. 

“I have nowhere else to go,” Luke states. He’s holding himself stiffly, and Steve’s entire body roils with the desire to lay his palms on the smooth flesh of his shoulders; to rub them up and down to get him to relax; but for all his relative naiveté in matters such as these even he knows that now is not the time for that. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says for the third (but probably not the final) time. “Don’t feel that you have to do this, please. Um…” looking around for inspiration, his gaze alights on the leather wallet (another Christmas present, this from Natasha. After the long string of gratuitously self-themed gifts, he’d just been grateful for something un-spangled) and snaps his fingers. “Ah, a hotel? I’ll pay for you to stay there, all expenses covered… Or, um, you could just move onto another floor, if you want to stay here. I’m sure Tony’ll sort something out.” 

Stretching luxuriously, Luke puts on a show of nuzzling into the pillows that makes Steve’s cock all but bounce, slicking a wet line down the inside of the towel. It dampens his thighs when he shifts, uncomfortably. “Uh-“ 

“Do you want me to go, Mr Rogers?” Luke enquires. He’s doing that damn half-lidded eyes thing and he _must_ know what he’s doing; he _must_ know why Steve was curled in the shower yanking furiously at his dick as if it had personally offended him; but the little tease is doing it again nevertheless, and really, really Steve can’t puzzle him out. Does he want this? Is he just doing this because he thinks this is the best way to keep himself housed and fed - because there are many things Captain America may be beneath his patriotic façade, an artist and a pervert amongst them, but he does _not_ want to tally ‘master of kept men’ to the list. But if Laufeyson truly, genuinely wants to stay; isn’t disgusted by his… perversions… Steve shakes himself, and does the only thing he can think of to do in this delicate situation. 

He tells the truth. 

“No. Uh, definitely not. Not if you mind, uh, _this._ ” He flaps his palm between them to gesticulate what his mouth cannot, the red stain on his cheeks becoming puce. Luke’s smile is positively devious. 

“I’m flattered, Mr Rogers. Very flattered indeed.” Steve follows his train of sight down his body to where his cock, fat and wet, has pronged through the folds of the towel, the purpled tip exposed to the air, and his rebuff of ‘I told you to call me Steve’ dies on his lips. 

“Woah-!” His hands slap down over himself. Luke, who seems to be drawing his confidence from Steve’s waning self-worth, spreads his legs invitingly and shimmies his shirt off once more. 

“Perhaps I could be of some assistance with this also, Mr Rogers?” he says. Oh. _Oh._ Steve moves without thinking; clasping one leatherclad shin and using it to drag Luke up the bed towards him. His palm almost completely covers the curve of his slender calf, and he’s not surprised to find it hardened with hidden muscle. Luke’s strong for a skinny guy - too strong, really. Steve supposes that’s some part of his mutation, and wonders abstractly if he could entice him down into the basement training hall for some sparring. Just to test out his boundaries. _Or you could test them now,_ he thinks to himself with uncharacteristic lewdity, and blushes all the more. Some small part of him is still determined to do the right thing; shake his head to Luke’s advances and walk out of the door. But the rest reminds himself that he’s only in a towel and sporting an erection that is massive, edging into positively monstrous, and if Tony saw a glimpse of _that_ on the hallway security cameras he would tease him for a week. Possibly a year. 

Steve knows how to have sex with a man, although he’s never done it before. A year or so spent sharing house with the infamous Mr Stark has made him shockingly well-versed in all kinds of sexual proclivity, and the one time he mentioned ‘fondue’ to the rest of the team Clint had snickered and dived straight into a worryingly detailed description of where, and how exactly melted cheese could be applied within the bedroom to make ‘the experience more pleasurable - and yummy - for everybody involved’. So when Luke kicks off his sinfully tight pants and hoists one leg up so he can finger himself, Steve watches with rapture rather than shock, and finds himself wishing for his sketchpad again. Luke sees the expression on his face, flips onto his front and stares at Steve heavy-eyed over the prow of one ice-white shoulder. 

“What do you want, Steve?” he asks. His voice is husky and fucked out already, despite Steve not having yet laid hands on him. When Steve drags his eyes down Luke’s spine the contrast between snowy, spread buttocks and the swollen red bud of his hole is astounding. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and reaches out a trembling hand to brush the last knob of Luke’s tailbone, not quite daring to go any lower. Not yet, anyways. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” That makes something feral and wanton spark in Laufeyson’s eyes, and he slides his two longest fingers - middle and ring - within himself to the hilt, thrusting himself back onto them with sudden fervour. 

“Say that again,” he hisses. The fingers crook on the upstroke. He arches his back up to an unnatural degree - and surely that shouldn’t be comfortable, but the pain only seems to increase Luke’s arousal; Steve can see his cock jutting up like a flagpole from where it nestles in soft black curls, and when something clicks in the man’s spine it bobs a centimetre higher. “Look at me, Steve, and tell me I’m beautiful. _Worship_ me.” His words wash over Steve, and he finds himself obeying before he can think to do otherwise. His palms flatten down on Laufeyson’s shoulder blades and roughly smooth anklewards, grasping the soft half-moons of his model’s arse to rut him back against him on the way. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. His voice is a barely-audible scratch in Luke’s ear. When he tongues the cusp of it the man whines, thin chest heaving. “So damn beautiful.” He can feel the point where Luke’s fingers breach, knuckles scraping the hard muscles of Steve’s abdomen as the larger man slides his dick beneath and between the model’s spread legs. He earns himself a whimper by circling the stretched rim with his thumbnail; a low, drawn-out moan when he adds one of his fingers to jostle against Laufeyson’s own. It’s by far the hottest thing he’s heard to this day, and he thrusts forwards despite himself; painting the man’s soft inner-thighs with precum. 

There’s no time to fetch a sketchpad. He’s not sure he could stand removing his hands from Luke’s body long enough to start a drawing anyway, let alone finish it. So instead he settles for memorising every detail with a promise to paint it out later. The way his model’s lips part against Steve’s other hand and suckle on his fingers like a baby on a teat; the way Luke can play him and make him increase his steady pace with a slight squeeze of his thighs; a clench of his anus around Steve’s fingers so he can imagine how the fluttering muscles would feel up and down his cock… 

Suddenly it’s all too much and not half-enough, and Steve manages to bark out a word of warning - a helpless grunt of Luke’s name - before he’s coming. Luke doesn’t pull away, allowing Steve to finish between his thighs. The tip of his cock bangs relentlessly into Laufeyson’s balls, shooting thick streaks of come to dribble down and coat his skin in cream. Luke follows shortly after with a gasp. It’s not Steve’s name he says; in fact Steve can’t even work out if it is a name - it sounds more like a breathy exhalation, a long ‘thuuuur’ that trails off into silence as the super soldier wraps his hand around Luke’s dick and pumps him through the spasms. 

Slowly, eventually, they withdraw from each other to curl on the bed; not quite hugging but close enough to touch. Steve gently pulls his fingers from Luke’s body, and eases the man’s own out as well. He lays with his head buried in Luke’s neck until the afterglow has worn off and the thin man pushes him away, an apologetic smile on his lips as he hurries to the bathroom. 

Steve thinks about following him for a minute, then dismisses the idea. Even if they’ve just had sex- or gotten each other off, whatever; he’s not sure what exactly constitutes for ‘sex’ in this day and age - they’re ready for shower-sharing yet. Maybe after next time. If there is a next time, of course. Steve lies back on the bed and sighs. Luke seemed to enjoy it. 

He’d smiled. He’d made all those hot, enticing little noises. He’d come. 

He gives Luke his privacy to clean off, feeling a few rogue splatters drying on his belly, and when the man comes out looking fresh-scrubbed and tired, he strips the dirty sheets onto the laundry pile for later and takes his turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I borrowed slightly from Neil Gaiman’s sex-goddess in American Gods, only with, y’know, less vagina-eating. And whoops, somehow my otp slipped in there whilst I wasn’t looking… *Shakes head at Thor and Loki*. If you don’t like it, you can pretend it’s not there~ :)**

**Author's Note:**

> **So. How'd it go? Do I get kudos for Loki's awful nomme de plume?**
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> **C'mon, Loki. You're the God of Lies. You can do better than that.**
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